Born with the Sea in Her Blood
by CRebel
Summary: Callie Rogers: Charming and clever, kind and guarded. She makes her home in a boat at the docks and goes to school, hangs with friends, teaches a kids' fencing class, does odds jobs for *The Storybrooke Daily Mirror* . . . She's content. But then Emma Swan shows up, and the truth of Storybrooke begins to unfold . . . but some truths are better left forgotten.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from _Once Upon a Time._**

**_. . . . ._**

**Prologue**

I can hear them all going mad in town. There are shouts, cries, screams . . . Joy, pain, anger. Oh, yes, I'm sure every emotion, every last one – and in its most powerful form, too – is spilling onto the streets of Storybrooke. But all of that chaos, it's background noise. Because what's going on _out there_ is meaningless when I have it all going on _in here_, in this little bedroom, in this little boat . . . My boat? My bedroom? It's me, it's mine, but it's not.

It's Callie's. Not –

"_Adalia."_

I say it out loud for the first time, my old name – my real name. Saying it is a mistake. It amplifies it all. The memories, and the feelings, the sights and – and the people – from my past – from Adalia's past –

_You are Adalia!_

"Adalia . . ."

I'm pacing. What the bloody hell am I still doing in my room? Next thing, I'm on deck. Deck! Hah! That's a laugh . . . This isn't a deck, not compared to –

_But it's home._

_No, it's not. Home is –_

_You haven't had a home in years._

_Adalia. You haven't had a home in years._

The sea. I look out at the sea, lit up by the sun, welcoming me back. _Me. _Adalia. Not Callie. Callie was fiction. A story. Callie never existed. Or if she did, she's dead. Or dying.

Which means all of it never existed or is dead or is dying. The Sheriff's office. School. Cade . . . Cade?

And the fencing club! The bloody _fencing club!_

I almost laugh, but I can't, I can't catch my breath enough to do so.

In town, I'm sure there are celebrations. Sure, people will also be infuriated. The Queen will probably be dead before the day is out. People will want to return to the Enchanted Forest. But they're reunited with themselves, with their loved ones, their _real _loved ones. Oh, today will go down as a happy day . . .

But not for me, not out here. Not on this dock, not on this boat, not in this heart.

Oh, but the sea . . .

_You, me, a ship, and the sea._

_Daddy._

_Daddy, I'm sorry._

Ignorance is bliss. That's the saying. And my ignorance was so blissful for so long, but now the cat's out of the bag, isn't it? No more bliss. No more teenage girl with a beautiful boyfriend and freedom and a peaceful life ahead of her.

The thing about forgetting that your heart is broken is that, as soon as you remember, it's like it's breaking all over again. And when you remember all at once a hundred different reasons it should be shattered, then it's shattered a hundred times over again, and you want to scream, because the pain is impossible to contain. And I try, but remember? My lungs aren't working quite right.

The sea. I smell the salt, I close my eyes, and Callie dies.

I open my eyes, Adalia. I am Adalia. And a deep, dark calm sweeps through me, as thick as blood.

Hundreds of heartbreaks, hundreds of things I can't fix.

. . . . .

"_I can't go with you."_

"_Of course you can. You don't belong on this ship. You belong with other children. You belong with me . . ."_

"_My father –"_

"_Doesn't love you. Not like we can. Come with me, Addie. Come with me."_

_. . . . . _

I can't fix that. I can't fix that.

There is _one thing_ I can fix.

The oldest thing of all.

I'm steady now. My boat moves to the sound of my heartbeat as I reach for the edge. I look out at sea, the one thing Callie and Adalia both knew and loved and lived and breathed and _needed_, and it lights a long-dead fire in my heart. Adalia lives.

I live. _I am alive._

And I have to go skin a crocodile.


	2. Just a Clock

The text I received from Sidney said to meet him at Granny's at 7:15, but when I walk in at what the clock on the wall claims is 7:12 to see him near the back of the diner, wearing an expression of pure exasperation, I'm not at all surprised. Partly because there is no such thing as being on time when Sidney Glass wants something from you; partly because Sidney loves to assert his self-perceived superiority over whomever he can, and looking exasperated is one of his favorite, albeit subtle, means to that end.

Granny's smells like fried food and syrup, which instantly makes my mouth water, Pavlov's dog style. I catch the eye of Ruby, Granny's only actual (grown – very much grown) grandchild, and make sure she acknowledges me – and therefore, my desire for food – before I head across the place to see my sort-of employer.

Sidney taps his fingers on the table, glaring at me as I sit down and pull off my trench coat. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up," he says.

"I'm early, Sidney," I reply patiently. "And considering the fact that your text woke me up thirty minutes ago, I would say that I've done quite well. I even brushed my teeth a little longer than usual to ensure that you would get the full effect of my endearing smile." I give him that smile now. He only grimaces. My well-practiced charm doesn't work on Sidney. I don't mind – it makes him fun to play with. "Now," I say, straightening my vest – school uniform, standard issue, I loathe the thing – "What can I do for you?"

He slides a newspaper – his newspaper, _The_ _Storybrooke Daily Mirror –_ across the table. I flip it around and look into the drooping black-and-white version of a woman's eyes. She's in her mid-to-late twenties, I'd say, with long, light hair – also, the photograph is a mugshot. Notable. _Stranger Destroys Historic Sign, _proclaims the paper. _Alcohol Involved._

"Who am I looking at?"

Sidney leans over the table and lowers his voice. "Her name is Emma Swan."

"Okay, and _why are we whispering about her?"_

"Because she's sitting at the counter behind you."

I twist around and find her right away. If I had reason to look, I could have found her without Sidney's prodding; a stranger is a sore thumb in Storybrooke. From my angle, I can only see her long blonde curls, defined cheekbones, the tip of her nose, but, again – sore thumb. I could identify nearly every person in this town from this view, most of us could. Welcome to Storybrooke.

I turn back to Sidney. "What's she doing here?"

"Making trouble."

"I can see that. I hate when strangers destroy historic signs. Was that her sole purpose?"

He sighs, dark eyes threatening me with death. God, he's fun. "She's making trouble _for the mayor."_

I incline my head. I figured out a long time ago that most, if not all, of the jobs Sidney gives me come by order of Mayor Mills, but he's rarely so candid about it. "In what way?"

"She's Henry's mother," he says, then flinches and corrects, "_Biological_ mother."

At this, I can't resist turning to seek out the woman again, even though I know I can't see her face. When I'm done taking in the side of her head for the second time, I quietly say, "Alright, then. What's Henry's biological mother doing here?"

"Henry brought her."

"Henry – how?"

"He tracked her down, asked her to come. Somehow he got her to stick around."

"Does she want back into his life?"

"Reg – Mayor Mills thinks so. She's booked a room, she doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving."

"Mmhmm. And is this defacement of Miss Swan –" I hold up the paper, he looks away, twitching his hand – "connected in any way to her decision to stay?"

"I printed that up before I knew she had a room."

I put the paper down, stretch my legs out beneath the table, cross them. Fold my hands in my lap. "Alright. Henry's mother is a sign-destroying drunkard, so be it. What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you can find on her."

"Isn't digging up dirt your job, Sidney?"

"I procure hard-to-find information from government vaults," he says. "Lying down with the dogs is where you come in."

I grin. "I do love mongrels."

His patience, I see, is wearing as thin as the veil of professionalism he's trying so desperately to cling to. "Will you do this?" he forces out.

I shrug. "Haven't turned you down this far into our arrangement, have I?"

He nods once. The deal is made. "Henry is going to be at your, uh – _whatever you call it_ this afternoon."

"It's called _fencing_," I say. "A junior fencing class."

"Right. Which you're still not qualified to teach, I assume."

"I don't teach it, the club does, I just happen to be team captain and –" I stretch out my arms "– the best member. And we're running the class out of the goodness of our hearts, so I don't think we actually require any qualification . . ."

He stands up. He stopped listening sometime after "member," I'd say, so honestly I'm surprised he stayed sitting for that long. He pulls out his wallet. A fifty-dollar bill falls onto Emma Swan's mugshot. I draw my knee into the chair and draw the bill into my right boot.

"Talk to him, the mayor says he likes you," Sidney says, eyes and thoughts already beyond me.

"Aye-aye, boss."

"See if you can get close to her."

"I know what I'm doing, Sidney." I've done it before.

He gives me the same doubting, demeaning look he gives me every time I'm about to do the damn thing he hired me to do, and then he leaves.

"Good riddance." Isn't it funny how the most entertaining toys seem to break the fastest?

I study Emma Swan's face a little while longer before I start rifling through the thin pages of the paper. Almost exactly halfway through, I find what I'm looking for, what I can never help looking for – "Sketches of Storybrooke." By Callie Rogers.

Today, my little gift to the world is Marco in his shop, sanding a soon-to-be bench for the park, no charge, because that's the kind of guy Marco is. On that note, he's also a great subject to draw – he carries on his work, carries on a conversation, acts like you come in to stare at him every day. He's a far cry from, for example, Dr. Archie Hopper, who couldn't stop grinning like a maniac when I sketched him on the street with Pongo a couple of weeks ago.

"I love this one."

Ruby. She places a plate and a mug next to the paper, careful not to cover it up. She taps the sketch with a red-painted nail. "You got him just right. Look how focused he is . . . Although I was wondering when you planned on doing another picture of me . . ."

"Because you don't get enough attention?" I ask innocently, reaching for the coffee. Ruby smiles in a way that is somehow equal parts modesty and naughtiness. She smooths the apron that hangs too low to cover her bare midriff as I try the drink. Salted caramel latte, as delicious as it is every morning, because Ruby has a gift, I swear it. And a peanut butter and (raspberry) jam (not jelly) sandwich on whole wheat bread, toasted to perfection. For as long as I can remember, I've come to Granny's for breakfast before school, and as long as I can remember, Ruby has made every last bit perfect. To a tee. "God," I say as I lower the mug, licking my lips. "Ruby, this is delicious. I adore you."

"Yeah, I make a good latte. You can do _that_." She nods at the paper, then at me. "You've got some serious talent, Callie."

"You're sweet," I tell Ruby, running my hand over the reprint of my drawing. Once upon a time, I thought Sidney truly only wanted me on the payroll for my sketches. Oh, to be young and naïve once more. Sixteen's proving much harder than the previous years. But emancipation does that to a girl, I suppose.

_Sketches of Storybrooke. _This is how I make my living, if you ask anyone from this town, Ruby included. I give Sidney a new set of sketches every week, he prints them up, pays me. But not enough to live off of. Which is why there's another side to my job with _The Daily Mirror, _a side I share with no one_. _A side that leads me into situations like spying on the biological mother of an adorable boy whose adoptive mother happens to be a known witch. Or something that rhymes with _witch._

But I try not to dwell on the nature of my job.

Ruby leaves me to my meal, and I eat it fast, so I can go happen upon Emma Swan at the counter. But when I drain the last of my latte and stand, I do so just in time to hear the bell above the door chime, to catch Swan leaving, led by a little boy with dark hair and a scarf. I watch them go, and as they walk down the sidewalk, I get a really good view of Swan's profile for the first time – Henry has her nose. And Henry, right before they disappear from view, looks back at her, beaming. Which is lovely. I see him twice a week for the fencing class, and his smiles have been getting harder and harder to come by.

Later today, I'll manipulate what answers I can from him.

I twist my right-hand ring. The silver ring, with the onyx embedded into the band. It lives on the ring finger. My left-hand ring lives on the little finger and has a tiny black jewel in it. I actually have no idea what type of jewel it is, as Mr. Gold is the only one in town I know of who can tell me, and Mr. Gold is more or less a –

"Who's the drunk girl?" someone says from behind me.

I take a breath. "Her name's Emma Swan. And she isn't drunk in that picture."

"Headline says 'Alcohol Involved.'"

"I know how to spot a drunk." I turn and look at Cade Harper, sitting where Sidney had, holding _The Mirror _and squinting at Swan's picture like a detective. Or, like a six-year-old pretending to be a detective. "Whereas you know how to be one."

He looks up at me and grins. "Somebody's in a mood this morning." His blonde hair, still damp from the shower, falls over his eyes as they crinkle at the corners – he looks older than his nineteen years. Which is probably why he can get his hands on alcohol so easily.

I pop my eyebrows but give him a smile. "I'm just tired." I glance at the clock on the wall. "And I'm going to be late."

He drops the paper and yawns dramatically. "Then let's get you to school, young lady."

"You're my escort, now?"

He shakes his head, stands, pushes his chair back under the table without worrying about the screeching noise it makes. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. Stoplight's out around there. Leroy wanted me to take a look at it."

"Mm. Did he say please?"

"Yes, and then he kissed my hand like the gentleman he is . . . Ruby!"

"No shouting across the diner!" Granny shouts from across the diner, appearing apparently out of nowhere, perhaps to balance the books, perhaps to scold Cade. He flashes her a smile and steps over to the counter, where Ruby hands him the bagel and Styrofoam coffee cup she puts aside for him each morning. He says some smooth words and ducks his head, but when I pay, he doesn't. He's one of the few people I can name who can get away with that, and it's only because Granny and Ruby know where to find him when the tab's run up too high. He has nowhere to go but the inn.

I stop outside, to button up my coat. Cade takes a few steps down the street, ruffling his hair, and the wind catches his scent and blows it back to me. I inhale. Aftershave and cigarettes. He must have lit up right after the shower. I don't think he likes going out without the smell of smoke on his clothes. Some of the girls he's dated have complained to me about it, and I never know what to tell them. Never particularly want to help them, anyway, because those same girls also typically complain to Cade about me.

"Hey." I slip my hands into my pockets and catch up to him as he's tearing into his bagel. "Can I sketch you this afternoon? Between three and four?"

He chews, swallows. We move along the street, down to the crosswalk. Past the store windows with all of the pretty things no one ever seems to buy. "Didn't you sketch me, like, a month ago?"

"Are you really going to turn down an offer of free publicity? This could be your key to a record deal."

"Right, somebody from Storybrooke's going to give me a record deal . . . nah, I don't expect to get rich and famous until I have enough money to leave this place."

"Nobody leaves Storybrooke," I say. Cade and I live in one of those little towns filled with people who swear they're on the verge of leaving and just – don't. And Cade and I have talked about that, on late nights when one or both of us are delirious from lack of sleep (me) or from drinking (him). But he just laughs, exactly like he is now, and says –

"I'm not nobody."

He sips his coffee. We're at the crosswalk, he punches a button on a pole and we wait for a little glowing man to tell us we may walk.

"I know you're not," I say, and leave it at that. Because maybe he will go. Hell, he _probably_ will. Probably soon.

"You're not, either," he says matter-of-factly. He looks at me, neck loose, head hanging back. Gives me a half-smile that makes me believe he might know everything. "And you could leave anytime you want. Just jump on a boat and go."

"Yes, it's that simple."

"You have a boat."

"What I don't have is money."

His smile grows, leaves wisdom behind for the wonderful world of mischief. "So steal it."

"You're the outlaw. Not I."

Now his smile shows teeth.

The street tells us we can walk. We do. The school is about twenty minutes from here by foot, and I ask Cade what time it is.

"8:15."

"The joke that never gets old . . . Seriously, how late am I –?"

"What the hell?"

He's stopped in the middle of the street, gazing up with his mouth a little open. I follow his eyes up to the clock tower that reaches up from the library. "Well," I murmur, "Would you look at that . . ."

It's the clock. For as long as I can remember, the hands have been stuck at 8:15. Now they're at 7:49 – no, 7:50. The long hand just ticked forward. "I take it from your tone of surprise that Storybrooke's custodial services had nothing to do with this?" I say.

"Not unless Leroy forgot to tell me about it on our date last night."

"What would your children look like?"

"Sexy short guys with dreamy baby blues and the voices of angels."

"It disturbs me that you have an answer to that ready to –"

"Excuse me."

I twist and meet the eyes of Mr. Gold. His lips curl up. His eyes, however, are stone. Probably because we're blocking his way. Also, probably because he's Mr. Gold.

"Sorry." I step to the side and pull Cade along with me. He plants his feet once Mr. Gold has room to pass and gives the pawnbroker a _Have a good day, jackass _kind of smile.

But Mr. Gold's eyes slide over him as if he isn't there. They meet mine again briefly as he walks away, cane clicking against the asphalt. "It's just a clock, dear."

I watch him go down the way we just came from, off to his shop for a hard day of doing whatever the hell a rich man does. I shrug away a chill.

"I could listen to him talk all day," Cade murmurs, beginning to walk again. "I love European accents . . . You coming, my sweet little English muffin?"

I pull my eyes from Gold's back. "Yeah."

On the sidewalk, as Cade swallows the last of his bagel, I clear my throat and say, "You never answered whether or not you would sit for the sketch."

"Anything for you, Callie."

"Bring your guitar, would you? I liked the one I did of you with it, last time . . ."

"Where? And you said between three and four?"

"Yes, and, uh – the picnic tables, outside of the cafeteria. I need to stay close, I have –"

"The fencing class, I know . . . but are you sure Sidney won't mind you sketching the same person four times in the span of . . . I don't know, maybe two months? Even one as devilishly handsome as me?"

My hands come together, I fiddle with my left-hand ring this time. "Sidney doesn't care."

"You're playing with your ring."

"No, I'm not. It's a figment of your imagination. As a matter of fact, all of this is; you're only dreaming."

"No, I know I'm not dreaming. If I were dreaming, Ruby would have been wearing a Catholic school girl outfit. What's wrong?"

"I'm just . . . busy. School stuff, you know."

"Ah, don't worry about it." He tosses his coffee cup into a trash can, and the next thing I know, there's a cigarette in his mouth. "Hell, I dropped out of school, and I'm doing just fine."

He lights up. The smoke billows from his mouth, and I very much doubt it's a good thing, but he's gotten me to like the smell of cigarettes. The grey cloud snakes around his head and flees into the sky, so I get only the barest bit in my lungs, and then I have to let it go, too.


	3. Earn Your Pardon

**THE ENCHANTED FOREST**

Somehow, Adalia had managed to avoid being locked away until now. Unfortunate, as she had a long list of other streaks she would have been much happier to break. Which, yes, was saying something.

The damn place was everything a good and proper dungeon should be. Dark and dank, underground, muddy – Oh, she hoped the gunk on her boot was mud. She leaned against the back wall, one boot propped up behind her; she appeared to be a woman completely at ease, when in reality, she was . . . not.

Honestly, at the moment, she felt more like a girl.

Footsteps. From several feet. They echoed towards her down the long brick corridor as incomers neared the bend before her cell. Their shadows danced madly in the torchlight and made the visitors seem larger than life, and far more menacing, so when the five men came around the bend in the corridor, it was a bit anticlimactic. Enough so that Adalia smiled. As the men came toward her, she went towards them. And as she draped her arms through the iron bars, she realized that, while four of the men were dressed in the predictable sort of armor she had seen on every palace guard she had ever come across, their leader was not. She straightened. The head man was dressed in a white shirt, blue pants, and a pair of shining boots that must have cost a pretty penny or two or thousands. Her eyes slid up. His black hair was without fault. And those blue eyes . . .

"You're Prince Eric," she said.

He came too close to her. Not a smart move on his part, but she wasn't about to try anything. The prince said, "And you're . . . ?"

She smiled. "Imprisoned? Brunette? Charming beyond belief?"

There was a twitch at the corner of his lip. "I was hoping for a name."

He spoke gently. A good sign. She had been told that he was kinder than his father, which was why she was hoping Daddy would send the future king down to deal with such trivial business as she.

Well, that and other reasons.

"It's Adalia," she said.

"Adalia. That's a very pretty name."

"Ah, that's kind. And you're not even the charming prince." She smiled wide enough to make it clear she was mocking him. The fact that she dropped the smile just as fast drove the point home, and Prince Eric furrowed his brow. Adalia said, "Tell me something, Not-the-Charming-Prince – don't you think it might be a bit much to lock away a petty thief in the royal dungeons? Honestly, your men should have just taken my hand. Saved your time as well as mine."

"I have no interest in crippling young women. Neither does my father."

"Well, advise your father to cripple me or execute me . . . your _Highness_." She pressed her face against the bars, pierced him with the green-grey eyes she had taught herself to use so well, for so many things other than simply seeing. "Those are the only two ways you'll keep me in here, alive, for very long."

It surprised her a bit that he smiled. But it was not a happy smile. "You have a restless spirit, I take it?"

She inclined her head.

"I can relate." He ducked his head for a moment, and Adalia couldn't help eyeing the sword on his belt. But she stood at attention when he spoke again. "You're in the royal dungeons," he explained, "because you're more than a petty thief. You stole no jewels, no money. You stole maps. Very important maps that could do a lot of damage if they were to fall into the wrong hands."

Adalia said nothing.

"And, upon being caught by my men . . . you commenced to draw your sword and defeat three of them."

"I did defeat them. I did not, however, kill them. You're welcome. Your sailors got their bloody maps back, and I spared three lives I could have taken – albeit with a little bloodshed on their part. But wounds heal, death doesn't. My point, dear Prince, is that I believe we're even. Why don't we all just call it a day and go home?"

"Why did you let them live?"

"What?"

"Why did you let them live?"

She tapped her fingers on the iron bars. "There was no point in killing them. Your men had me surrounded."

"But it would have been self-defence," Prince Eric said.

Adalia brought her hands together to twist one of her rings, but as soon as she realized what she was doing she locked her fingers onto the bars again. "You've found me out, your Highness. I don't like killing." She paused. Softer, she said it again: "I don't like killing."

"No," the prince said quietly. "I didn't think you did."

Her eyes fell to the ground.

"But we've received reports that the crew of _The_ _Tiger's Eye _was spotted with a young woman who appeared to be very skilled in swordplay."

"_The_ _Tiger's Eye?" _Adalia's eyes widened. "That pirate ship your men let dock a fortnight ago?"

"A mistake," Prince Eric said, for a moment losing hold of his sweet disposition, which was nearly satisfying to Adalia; she found it much easier to deal with someone she wanted to throttle. "One that will never happen again, I can assure you."

That was when Adalia became certain that this man had little to no experience with pirates. Or guards who loved gold. Or guards who enjoyed life. No, a man who knew pirates knew that putting them with either or both of those last two elements made docking a pirate ship as easy and natural as a sunset.

All she said, however, was, "Well, I suppose that's good to hear."

"They tell me this girl – the one seen with the pirates – was small in stature, but strong and quick, with pale skin and long dark hair."

"I'm sure she's lovely."

The prince huffed out a breath, rubbed his eyes. "Can we please stop playing games?" he asked.

"I don't know what you're –"

"You were the girl on the pirate ship."

Adalia took a deep breath.

Prince Eric said, "You're a pirate."

The words weren't loud enough to echo through the dungeon. But they repeated in Adalia's mind all the same. Soon enough, a tear slipped from her cheek. "I never wanted to be," she whispered.

"I know," said the prince, his voice gentle and sweet again. "I can tell. That's why I'm going to help you."

She wiped away the tear. "In what way, your Highness?"

He stepped closer. "By giving you a chance to help the Maritime Kingdom and earn your pardon."

"I – I'm a pirate, how can I be pardoned –?"

"As I said." He found her hand and gave it a squeeze. "You're going to help the Maritime Kingdom."

Adalia widened her eyes. She again wiped away tears, and then smiled at the prince in a way that made his heart melt for the girl.

What he didn't know was that Adalia's smiles were something else she had taught herself to use so well, for so many things.

**. . . . .**

**A.N.: You guys have a feeling for it yet? Let me know - I would love to hear your thoughts (or questions - questions are fun.). This is going to be the basic layout of the story, with more present-day Callie than past Adalia (for now), and I won't be covering every single episode of OUAT, just the ones I feel would be most relevant to her . . . and, if anyone is wary of OC-centric stories, I can assure you that Callie's will eventually be very involved with the lives of the main characters. I'm looking forward to writing more of this, I hope you guys are looking forward to reading. Thanks for getting this far! - CR**


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